


My Blood, Your Mouth

by AlwaysEroticWrestling, ThisGuyFvcks



Category: All Elite Wrestling, Professional Wrestling
Genre: Aggressive Pining, Havoc likes pain, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, Mox likes to fight, Pac is boring in this one, deathmatch adjacent violence, no beta no care, post oct 23 Dynamite, sorry - Freeform, wrestling is ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-04 11:09:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21196691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysEroticWrestling/pseuds/AlwaysEroticWrestling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisGuyFvcks/pseuds/ThisGuyFvcks
Summary: The night Mox threw Omega off that comically-sized stack of poker chips his heart started pounding. It wasn’t an idle fancy anymore. It was an imminent probability.Jon Moxley didn’t give a shit about ‘all that glittered.’ He’d seen the greener grass spread out before him, and how it turned to ash under his feet.





	1. Give Me Moxley.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hi there.  
I'm new. 
> 
> I'm here to fill a void I see in wrestling fic. All stories are AU or Kayfabe compliant, written about the characters portrayed and not the personal lives of the performers.  
Shoot me requests for science.

When he returned it had set the very world on fire, and Jimmy Havoc was pleased to mark himself as one of the first embers to go up. 

Jon Moxley’s name carried weight. His past infamy had given it weight and meaning and bite. Havoc could taste gravel and glass and blood when he said it out loud the first time.  
.From that second onward, he’d wanted him.  
Jon Moxley. 

It was about reputation at first. While Jimmy had toiled away the years grinding through barbed wire, with his face so bloodied some nights he couldn’t see, Mox had turned into an absent myth. 

He wanted to take him on. Through busted knuckles and rattling teeth, just to see who could really stand at the end. 

The night Mox threw Omega off that comically-sized stack of poker chips his heart started pounding. It wasn’t an idle fancy anymore. It was an imminent probability. 

And as much as he craved it, it didn’t seem like his chance was coming up any time soon. Even in the locker room their paths didn’t cross much. Moxley kept mostly to himself, and far be it from Jimmy to consider himself a social butterfly, particularly when his after-match rituals usually meant digging tacks or staples out of himself.  
But he did watch Moxley’s matches to try to feel him out. 

And god, it wasn’t just the violence that had him glued to the action. It was the chaos.  
It was unrepentant and hard hitting and beautiful and he almost hated it. Moxley was as the legend stated. His own breed. A man happy to die in a ring, pushing things as far as he could until it couldn’t be pushed any further. 

It was months in and Havoc still hadn’t got a taste. Pac, his fellow UK native, had broken off a piece and had clearly underestimated him by the way he was holding an ice-pack in the locker- room.  
“Feckin’ devil-may-care bastard. Tryin’ to get one over on me like gold doesn’t matter.” Pac’s hair clung to his face. His body was reddened from impact. 

Havoc knew Moxley could’ve done him worse. He’d have been willing to bet money against that time draw, too, and that said nothing less of the very tough bastard Pac was. 

He hadn’t been talking to anyone in particular, but Jimmy took it upon himself to throw Pac a towel.  
“You think that’s it then? You’re on the back burner until his sights are off of Kenny?” Pac wiped his face, and stared up at Havoc with a cold gaze. 

“I could give two shites about his feud with Omega.” 

“Maybe.” Havoc crossed his arms. The sting of Darby’s win over him was still in the back of his mind, nevermind the literal pain he’d learned to ignore. “But if he gets Omega you know he’s going to get a go at that belt before you do, yeah?” 

Pac seethed.  
It was a sight considering his general mood was irritated malice. 

“And?” He prompted, standing up to more appropriately face Jimmy. 

“Maybe I put a loss on him. Works better for you, right?”  
Havoc wasn’t the sort to scheme generally. He was a sharp object, fearless as anything, happy to stand up to the plate. Only problem was that, at this point, Moxley hadn’t taken note. Hadn’t even considered what they could do together. 

He was a third-string, unnoticed, even after Mox’d had his playtime with Joey Bloody Bad Boy Janela. 

If one thing could still sting, maybe it was Havoc’s pride. It wasn’t fair. 

He stared at Pac, unfearing and unblinking, a lock of ink black hair in front of his face. 

Pac let a breath out through his teeth. It turned into a rough laugh.  
“Alrigh’. I’ll bite.” 

~*~*~*~*~

Jon Moxley didn’t give a shit about ‘all that glittered.’ He’d seen the greener grass spread out before him, and how it turned to ash under his feet. Glory didn’t drive him. And holding a title sure as hell didn’t.

He didn’t make plans or hit lists or anything. He went after Kenny Omega because he had wanted to. Because it felt right. Because it felt good. Better than anything had felt for a long, long time. And finally, after months and months, Omega was starting to catch on. To get on his level. To leave those two high-flyers behind to focus on the challenge that Moxley had invited him to in May.  
Patience was a virtue Mox didn’t put stock in. And when Pac had put his petty desires over Mox’s needs, it was time for him to kiss canvas. 

Moxley left tag team morality long behind him. He didn’t owe Pac anything but payback for that cheap shot to the head. He just didn’t think he’d have time to collect so quickly.  
He wasn’t a voracious consumer of social media, but it did have its uses, and his most recent opponent took advantage.  
The message was short.  
Just a ‘We finish this’ with a time and an address.  
“Well. Goddamn.” What choice did Mox have? He’d said the ‘tv time limit’ had fucked him over, after all. He had no issue settling up. 

The dim street lights and condemned signs reminded him of home. It honestly seemed like a macabre choice for someone as relentless and, frankly boring as Pac to pick. Jon Moxley stepped out onto the lot thinking that he’d be a lucky man if he could get out of it without tires full of nails. 

As soon as he crossed the broken threshold he expected a hit. He had his hands clenched at his sides, ready to take a wild swing at any sign of movement, but it never happened.  
The boards groaned under his feet with rot, giving away his location in the dilapidated house. By the time he made it to the hallway his eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark.  
He peered around every open door as he passed, the tension in his spine winding tighter with every empty room he stepped by. 

For a moment, Moxley was beginning to think it was a rib, but the light in the next room cut a silhouette in the window.  
He instantly knew it was too tall and lithe to be the bastard, but the light from the half boarded-up window filtering around him didn’t give away much else. 

He heard the familiar sound of metal thunking softly against the wood. A baseball bat. The hand that gripped it was bone pale, with nails painted black. He leaned on it like a decorative cane. 

“Glad you could make it.” The accent was there, but the edges were softer than he’d expected. 

Moxley didn’t get surprised all too often, but he wasn’t going to let it show in his voice.  
“Havoc, isn’t it?”


	2. Hard.

The two figures appraised one another.   
Moxley, with his shoulders squared and his head down like a stalking predator. Havoc, unmoving from where he leaned against the window aside from his fingers tapping on the bat. 

It’s not like he hadn’t heard of him. They’d both been working for fifteen years. Word traveled. Mox might’ve been in a bubble the better part of a decade, but he remembered. 

“What’re plans with that bat, Jimmy…?” He asked, taking a slow but sure step forward. 

Jimmy smiled.   
“Oh this? ...Well.” He put the bat on his shoulder behind his head. “... A little bastard thought I migh’ knock a few teeth loose. Bust a rib or two.” He gave the bat a little, slow swing through the air and made a clicking sound with his tongue.   
Moxley didn’t blink.

Havoc tossed the bat aside with a loud clatter.  
“It’s not much my style though...”   
Moxley glanced at the bat, then back at the man. He shifted on his feet. He didn’t really like wasting time. “Besides. We both know it wouldn’t do much to stop you.”

Moxley might’ve laughed at that, and Jimmy Havoc had to admit it was pretty heady.  
“So if you’re not here to jump me, what is it?” Mox could see just fine by now. The black lines under Havoc’s eyes, the smile lines he was sporting. 

That was the question, wasn’t it? Jimmy took a few paces, boots falling heavy and kicking up layers of dust.  
It should’ve been a simple answer, but he hesitated.

With the weapon abandoned, Moxley had no problem stepping closer. They were on even footing now. He didn't have to ask a second time.

“You shouldn’t be spending all your time here fuckin’ about with Omega.” There was a bite of frustration in Havoc’s voice and Mox had no trouble picking up on it.   
“Doesn’t he have two guys with tassels that usually help him fight his battles?”

“Fuck off.” Havoc shook his head. And then he laughed. Realization dawned on him like a bruise blooming. “Is that it...?” He groaned and looked up at the roof. He was so used to bitter disappointment. He couldn't place why this time felt so sharper. “That’s really it innit. You’re obsessed with that curly haired knob, because of who he has in his corner…And who you don't.” 

Moxley was liking this less and less. The corner of his mouth twitched.   
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

Havoc looking him over. It was ...ironic, considering.   
“It’s just pining, innit? You just want what he has. What you had. And I thought I’d be getting a taste of the real Jon Moxley, not some -”   
His jaw clattered enough that he felt it behind his eyes. And then in his temple where it slammed against the wall. 

The night was starting to look up.


	3. Chapter 3

It hadn’t been his intent exactly to start a fight here, despite the brilliant setting. They both had a job to do soon and he didn’t want the show to go tits up because he’d gotten impatient. That being said-   
“That’s better.” Havoc came up throwing an elbow. It didn’t catch anything, but it gave him a little room-clearing Moxley out of his space.   
Fuck was he glad that bat wasn’t within reach. This would be over fast otherwise. 

“You don’t know shit-” Moxley’s lips curled back in a snarl and he came back with another punch aimed at Havoc’s jaw.   
It glanced off his arm instead, and a quick grip had them in a lock up. Moxley’s eyes were fire, and it was warming to know he’s sowed the seeds of chaos there.   
Mox shoved Havoc backward, but Jimmy took his opponent with him.   
The bite of loose nails from the boarded-up window grounded him, and he managed to land a few strikes on Moxley’s ribs. Enough to rob him of breath and gain breathing room again.   
Not that there was anywhere to go. 

There were no ropes here to run.   
“You don’t. Know me.”   
Moxley had a handful of Havoc’s gray band shirt until Havoc gave him a ferocious head-butt.   
“Fuck I don’t.” He pointed a finger that been broken several times over at Moxley. He could already see a crescent of blood on his lip forming. 

All this time, it could’ve been them. It should’ve been them, putting it all out there on the line for a bloodthirsty crowd. For themselves. 

Mox charged with a shoulder and pushed Havoc right into the boards and nails. He heard what was left of the glass crunch under the force. Felt his lungs give up a breath at the compression.   
Moxley could swear it sounded like a laugh. 

A few rough punches thrown to his sides and he could swear he had Havoc stunned. And he did, but when Jimmy did recover he didn’t get back on his feet alone. His repeated crashing against the wall had knocked a board loose.  
And he didn’t hesitate to swing it.   
It caught momentarily on Moxley’s shoulder. He could feel it raking.   
Several red lines bloomed over torn skin. Moxley shrugged it off and they were dancing again. 

They exchanged blows back and forth. At one point, Havoc went through the desk left in the far corner and Moxley got a slice over his left eyebrow courtesy of a lamp.   
Sweat and blood had long since mingled, and Havoc wasn’t sure which was flowing down his back more freely. 

All he knew was the arm crushing at his neck making the edges of his vision dim. He dragged his hand across the floor to find purchase anywhere he could to break the hold.   
He felt a bite in his hand.   
Glass.   
Just big enough to make it’s mark in Moxley’s side, making quick work through an already ruined shirt.   
Moxley yelled sharply, and Havoc could take in a free, stinging breath.   
He exhaled a laugh, but fuck-all he couldn’t bring himself up to his feet, and a half-second later Moxley had a hand full of his damp hair. 

Havoc grabbed onto his wrist, his bloodied hand making it nearly impossible to grip as Moxley pulled.   
He looked up at the man. Panting, rabid.   
Smiling sharp and smeared red.   
“This what you wanted?”   
Both spent. Havoc could feel even as he pondered the question.   
He asked one of his own.  
“It’s good, yeah?” And he helped pull himself up to stand as best he good in front of the taller man. Moxley’s grip on his hair didn’t loosen, making his scalp tingle. “The pain. Closer you get to it…” He took a shallow breath. He could hear the intermittent dripping on the wood floor. “That edge. More alive you feel.” 

Moxley stared at him, hair matted red, lip swelling, eyes mirroring his own. And in that sharp second Havoc felt vindication. They were the same. He felt it more than knew it. 

“Yeah.” Moxley curtly agreed, and then shoved Jimmy Havoc into the wall, hand still tied in his swath of black hair.   
“This was fun.” No one had fully won here. And he was sure that the moment Jimmy had and freedom, he’d be on the floor regretting the misstep.   
So they stayed in their standoff.   
Both panting, breathing the same air, while seconds lasted hours. Mox had him pinned with one hand and by the hair with the other. But Havoc was making no moves to let go of the fistful of shirt he had nor the wrist his fingers pressed into. 

They both caught details in those frozen seconds. Moxley could see scars, bone white and jagged in the black around Havoc’s hairline. The way blood diverted around a large raised one on his arm.   
Havoc could see the collar of Mox’s shirt turning red. He had to wonder if he’d added to the long mark on the back of his head with a gleaming new war wound. 

Fuck, they were the same, in a fashion. And even as he got some of his breath back, that hadn’t changed the tightness he felt worming from his gut to grip his chest. 

He didn’t realize he was moving until a numb ache in his neck flared up, but by then his mouth was on Jon Moxley’s. 

He wasn’t sure he’d call it a kiss. But his lips were parted around Mox’s swollen ones, and he felt him breathe warm breath into him. Shortly following was a sharp bite to his bottom lip that split the skin and made him grunt.   
Havoc didn’t have time to inhale before Mox returned the favor. Lips crushing together, messy and full of teeth.   
Moxley’s half blood-blinded eyes skewed shut and Jimmy Havoc found himself pressed against the wall more by the weight of Mox’s chest than the strength of his arms. 

Synapses that’d learned to be numb to pain crackled in sensory overload. He could taste salt, and heat, and copper and feel a rumbling that he wasn’t sure he could place as from his throat or Moxley’s. He thought he might slowly be suffocated again as their mouths worked, but he’d had worse blackouts under his belt.   
Before he lost all of his breath Mox pulled away enough to thunk their foreheads together. Sweat stung Havoc’s cuts fresh and sharp and for a second a cloud cleared. He shoved his gripped hands against Mox’s chest and he stumbled backward. 

Not far, because Havoc followed. Just as his hands started to settle at Moxley’s waist he was crushed against the wall again, pinned. His fingers pressed hard enough that he knew there’d be ten more bruises joining the mosaic on Mox’s torso. It was hard to give a shit with teeth scraping his busted lip, and then his jaw. Mox let out a shuddering exhale over his neck that Havoc felt in the base of his spine. 

He might’ve been wrong about what Moxley’d been pining for.


End file.
